Who wouldn't love an 'audience' with the profligately procreative PollyPocket powerhouse that is Prince? However, preferring as I do the rumbustious companionship of a slap-up Shakespeare skit peformed by after-hours theatrical greats in a sawdust-strewn drinking den in Soho to the cavernous corporate queue-fest that nowadays constitutes a 'big gig', the royal one's shindig at the O2 arena this weekend was rather disorienting.
All the more so because, as a classy broad with highfalutin connections (not to mention a keen eye for blackmail and a paucity of moral fibre resolutely unsupplemented by the AllBran of contrition), I found myself in the VIP suite, served rose champagne and guava by soft-shoed men with kid gloves (or else a nasty infection), comfortable yet rather disconnected from the arm-waving masses below (lighters now being hoarded by the same kind of person who keeps all their 'vintage' Nokia handsets).
It was like a fabulous dream James Brown might have on his leopardskin chaise, if James Brown were a bisexual 80s paedophile. The nubile mixed-race dancers, the Twinz, were Wordsworthian red in tooth and claw, gyrating with a kind of frenzied bloodlust in white ski jackets with Balenciagan silver leggings. The jazz band were just too good and fat and black and cream-suited not to be a hallucination. The Princeling himself was short and sweet - amongst all the razz he only performed about eight songs, and in a big white shirt with that Peter Pan face and that voice of prelapsarian beauty, he was like a child all dressed up to perform before his adoring family. His sexuality is childlike too - so vigorous, so energetic, so endlessly intersting to him and to us. The whole thing felt fabulous and transient and rather unpenetrating, and I'm not entirely sure I didn't make it up.
And yes, of course I would. We all would. But I'm rather a giantess, so it would probably have to involve some kind of harness, or possibly amputation. But then what good night out doesn't.